As if I sit, silent, fishing gear suspended over dry
earth, the ocean, far away, pushing against an
indifferent shore. While all the love has escaped
into the sky and become the sun, the sharp May
heat a reminder of what it could be like, closer,
higher, if we dared to leave the shade. I dream of
asking the questions that matter. Not looking for
answers. Why someone is. Why someone left. Why
I never win the memory games I play with myself.
Nothingness must have the same intensity as
summer, the same trigger as damp skin, the same
conviction of jasmine, the same postulation of a
first kiss. The same hope that waits for a fish to bite,
the end of a question trembling in the deep quiet.